


I (Don't) Want To Die

by yanderekirklandchan



Series: Thomas Barrow: Disenchanted with Life [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt!Thomas Barrow, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Season/Series 06, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanderekirklandchan/pseuds/yanderekirklandchan
Summary: If Thomas wants to kill himself, he needs to sneak a knife out of the kitchen. That proves itself harder than he expected.





	I (Don't) Want To Die

Thomas tried. It felt fruitless, of course, since he wasn't long for this world, but he kept on trying. He tried to pretend he was okay, though he was clearly crumbling apart. He tried to be friendly and social, though his efforts were thrown back into his face. He tried to be useful around the house; polishing silver till his hands burnt, dusting every nook and cranny, mending each piece of clothing he could find by hand, though he knew Phyllis could do a far better job with her sewing machine. He needed to work for the roof over his head, he wasn't a parasite. Well, that was arguable. Thomas found that he had to stay busy. He couldn't stay still for a moment.

Because if he stopped working then he'd stop being distracted and if he stopped being distracted then he'd start thinking and if he started thinking then he'd remember the awful thing he was about to do and how his life was coming to a close and how no one loved him and he was on his own and hated and worthless and so very scared and there was no one to save him… and if he thought about any of that then he would surely cry.

He shivered, pulling his livery—which he didn't know why he bothered putting on—tighter around him in an attempt to warm the bone-deep chill that had settled in. Only, even as he did that, his head pounded, hot and heavy, and suddenly he felt far too hot, pulling on the neck of his shirt as if being suffocated. It ping-ponged between those two extremes until Thomas had to wonder vaguely if he was unwell.

Of course, he couldn't bring himself to care. What was a cold when he was going to be dead in a matter of hours? It briefly struck him that he would never watch another sunrise, never see another star-lit sky. He was sad. Then he wasn't. The numbness was all consuming, allowing him only the briefest flickers of emotion. Why should he care if his heart was going to stop beating? If before too long his lungs would burn and he would gasp painfully for oxygen that he was no longer capable of utilising? If his blood vessels, slit open, would be unable to hold his blood, instead gushing it fruitlessly into the tub of water?

He gasped in a panic, hands gripping the banister for fear of him completely fainting. Thomas trembled, muscles taut, lips pressed hard together, eyes open but unseeing. He couldn't do this! He was a coward. He was a shameless bloody coward. Well… that wasn't quite true, he was full of so much shame it practically seeped through his shoes. But he was a coward. If self-murder, as the court called it, was cowardly then being too afraid to commit it was the ultimate cowardice. He smirked to himself, lightheaded as morbid amusement bubbled within him. All hail the king of cowards.

Thomas stumbled the rest of the way down the stairs, ambling blindly into the servants' room on automatic. He looked at the clock, a sight which would usually bring him at least some sort of thrill. Now he felt nothing. It was nearing on afternoon. He had nothing to do, he hadn't had anything to do all day. He was useless, so very useless. A parasite. A burden. A hassle. Thomas smiled darkly to himself, fingers tracing the familiar wooden frame of his favourite chair. There had once been a day, he mused, when he had longed for recognition and happiness and promotion. Now he begged on both knees to keep the roof over his head and was denied it. Well, life only got worse and if things could get worse than what they were now then Thomas didn't want any part of it. _Time to die_

Thomas turned sharply on his heel and marched into the kitchen as if in a trance. His body was ridgid, his face stony and emotionless. The only thing that gave away his sheer terror was his eyes. They burnt, overcome by a sea of sadness and fear. How had it come to this? How had he fallen so low? Thomas dearly wished there was another way… Against all circumstances in life he had survived. He should have died many times but he survived, from sheer stubbornness and pride alone. But that drive and passion had disappeared, now not even a trace of it was left. And even if he had pride left, which he certainly didn't, he rather thought it was more proud to kill yourself than be cast away to slowly die of hunger and cold. After all, it's better to walk away than be exiled, as they say.

Thomas tried as hard as he could to act proud, for old times sake more than anything. He would be amazed if anyone bought it though, he struggled to put one foot in front of the other. _Please no, please no, please…_ He had decided to take a knife from the kitchen. They were far sharper and could cut through his flesh like butter. His own razor was sharp enough, it was handy for shaving and gave him sufficient relief when he turned to its uses for… self punishment, shall he say. Thomas wasn't entirely convinced that it could kill a man, though. If he was going to do this he could not risk surviving.

That was why he found himself in the kitchen. Thomas allowed himself a selfish little moment to take the sight in. The cozy little room, always a little too dark and a little too hot and bursting with flavoursome odors. There was Mrs Patmore, bustling around to execute her finely mastered art. There was Daisy, a flower blossomed from the girl she had once been. They were serving something fancy, the likes of which had surely never graced his taste buds. And they never will now. Well… it wasn't as if he would get to eat upper class food even if he did live a full life.

Thomas had perhaps been standing there for a little too long, the two women were starting to look at him strangely.  
"Did they ring for something?" Daisy asked.  
It took Thomas a moment to realise he was being spoken to "Oh. Um… no. No." He sounded distant and scattered but it was the best he could manage when his chest was burning with despair and the room was spinning beneath his very feet.  
"Well out with it, then. What d'ya want?" Mrs Patmore asked as she carried a pan of something-or-rather across the room.

Thomas might have blushed had his skin not been what seemed like a permanent unhealthy grey. _I want a knife sharp enough to effectively kill me if it slices my veins open_ Well he couldn't very well say that, now could he? Well, Thomas rather thought that it would be better for him to blatantly take the knife than to try to sneak it out. Everyone's opinion of him was so low they'd probably freak out and think he was trying to murder someone! _But I am trying to murder someone. Myself._ Thomas shook the thought from his head, least his deep dark secrets somehow show in his eyes.

"I'm here to check the knives. See if any need sharpening and do it." He lied easily, a lifetime of the art making the words flow seamlessly from his lips.  
At that moment, Mr Carson walked in. Thomas' heart started to beat louder, his vision blurring in his panic. _They know. They all know what I'm about to do._  
"What's this?" Carson said with a suspicious frown, as always looking at Thomas like he was the judge in a court of law and Thomas was a murderer.

Thomas shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot "I-I… it's been a while since the knives have been sharpened so I thought I'd check them?" Had he been in a better state of mind he would never have sounded so unsure. He couldn't quite bring himself to care, though.  
Carson frowned, as if he'd said something vulgar, though he always looked at him that was so it was nothing new "Nonsense. That's a footman's job. Andy, can you check the knives." He said, Thomas already forgotten.  
Thomas couldn't stop the shiver that overcame him. Another reminder that he was useless. No one needed an underbutler. No one needed him. He wasn't even an underbutler anymore, he was a freeloader who was soon to be homeless. _Soon to be dead_ He'd rather be dead than homeless. _I don't want to die… I don't want to die!_ Thomas could tell when he was unwanted. He left the room.

Standing alone in the corridor, Thomas cursed to himself and dug his nails into his palms in frustration until they drew blood, small trickles of the stuff dampening his hands. He looked humbly at the red droplets. If only humans had sharp claws like tigers or bears, then he needn't find a knife. He could slash his own wrists with a simple swipe of his claws on each side. He harshly ran his nails up each arm as a feeble demonstration, studying the too-pale skin with morning fascination. Angry red lines appeared with little peels of skin jutting up here and there but nothing more. He sighed to himself and rolled his sleeves back down.

Thomas leant against the wall, closing his eyes as if in pain. He couldn't even bloody get a knife without messing it up. Maybe he could wait? Mrs Patmore and Daisy weren't always in the kitchen, if he snuck out in the dark of the night then he could easily swipe one. No. He knew he couldn't do that. Not that it wasn't physically possible. Merely, his nerves were so weak that if he didn't do it now he'd not be able to at all. He'd not be able to do anything. Thomas knew that he was so broken he would simply fall apart, crying on the floor, unable to even pick himself off the ground. 

No. He couldn't have that. He was running off of adrenaline alone and about to crash, but he wasn't down yet. It had to be now. He looked up the stairs, the pathway to his doom, with dread settling like a leaden weight in his stomach. Thomas took a shuddered breath, his eyes burning with tears that he didn't bother to blink back. They spilt quickly, leaving hot trails down his cheeks, but he made no sound. Somehow, even though he was crying he couldn't feel a thing.

He couldn't hear anything either, apart from the sound of his heart beating and each laboured breath. Each footfall from every step he took upward sounded muted, like he was hearing it from the other side of a tunnel. Thomas was completely disconnected from the world, it seemed. He viewed everything through a veil. Yes, there was a body walking up the stairs but it wasn't his. It was as if his soul had already begun to part from his mortal form, ready to make the final cut and be plunged into the afterlife. He'd always thought himself beautiful, it was his only redeeming quality. Beauty didn't matter when you were a decomposing corpse. He'd seen enough of those in the trenches to know that beauty was the most fickle thing. He placed little value on it.

Somehow, he ended up in front of his door. His razor would have to do. He walked in and picked it up, his hand trembling so violently that his tremors alone caused himself to cut up his hands in tiny nicks of the blade that drew a few drops of blood each. He could barely feel them. Horror settled over him like a python, squeezing the breath and life from his throat. Maybe he would die of fright? That would save a lot of effort. He turned and closed his door behind him, razor carefully concealed in his closed hand. No one would take it from him, surely. He was simply going for an extra shave. That was all.

_I don't want to die… I don't. It's all in my head so far. No one would ever know if I backed out…_ But what was the alternative? Being cast out on his face? Living in the streets? Dying of hunger and exposure? He'd be dead either way. Besides… even if he wasn't being kicked out, he didn't want to live. He may be terrified of dying but there wasn't anything more awful than living. Death was a sweet release. Death was his way out, even when he had nothing, even when he was at his lowest. Like now.

He had nothing. No friends, no job, no family, no interests, no money, no possessions, no future, no choices. But he had one thing: the life in his body. The blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs. He had control over that. There lay the key to his freedom. He dearly hoped there was no afterlife, he just wanted peace. And as long as he existed there would be nothing but pain and turmoil and suffering.

He wanted it all to stop. He didn't want to die, no. He wanted to live. He wanted a husband, he wanted children. He wanted a house, he wanted friends. He wanted a job he loved. He wanted to do things he loved, he wanted to know what it was he liked to do. He wanted to feel safe. He wanted to be content. He wanted to be loved. He wanted to be secure. He wanted to live with all of those things. But he didn't have those things and he never would. So, really, there was no point in living.

_I don't want to live. I don't want to live. I want… to die?_


End file.
